Eternal Damnation
I just got back from the gym. I was in the zone tonight. It was just me, the treadmill, Wyclef, and the Refugee All-Stars. “You can’t stop the Shining”.
Then a disabled man got on the elliptical next to me and I was reminded that exercise is pointless as I am going to hell. My fate was sealed in the Fall of 1996. I was a freshman in college. I had recently arrived in Davenport, IA with baseball scholarship in hand. The team had just returned from an off-season conditioning session and was assembled in the cafeteria. We were all sitting at the same table near the entrance doing more eating than talking; twenty-five guys physically spent. Most of whom hadn’t showered yet.
A young man entered the cafeteria that was, shall we say, physically challenged.
I don’t know the affliction but it causes a manner of walking that can only be described as spastic. Every movement seems incredibly arduous and forced. The legs lurch forward with no fluid motion and the head and shoulders shift forward and back in a herky jerky manner.
So this innocent student passes our table, conjuring up visions of the insect wearing the Vincent D’nofrio suit in Men in Black, when straight out of our left fielder comes this beauty…
“Look at this fuckin’ guy. Walkin’ in here like he owns the place.”
Record screeches to a halt. Uncomfortable silence….followed by some restrained chuckling. I was guilty. I couldn’t help it. I was simultaneously trying to keep milk from shooting out my nose and experiencing a deep self-hatred.
The timing and volume of the comment was such that I don’t know if the unfortunate victim ever heard it. It doesn’t matter. There is no excuse.
So, there you have it. I’ve got a seat reserved in the fiery depths of hell. In the front row. Right between Barry Bonds and the guy that gave me this haircut. I’ll understand if you think differently of me now.
Then a disabled man got on the elliptical next to me and I was reminded that exercise is pointless as I am going to hell. My fate was sealed in the Fall of 1996. I was a freshman in college. I had recently arrived in Davenport, IA with baseball scholarship in hand. The team had just returned from an off-season conditioning session and was assembled in the cafeteria. We were all sitting at the same table near the entrance doing more eating than talking; twenty-five guys physically spent. Most of whom hadn’t showered yet.
A young man entered the cafeteria that was, shall we say, physically challenged.
I don’t know the affliction but it causes a manner of walking that can only be described as spastic. Every movement seems incredibly arduous and forced. The legs lurch forward with no fluid motion and the head and shoulders shift forward and back in a herky jerky manner.
So this innocent student passes our table, conjuring up visions of the insect wearing the Vincent D’nofrio suit in Men in Black, when straight out of our left fielder comes this beauty…
“Look at this fuckin’ guy. Walkin’ in here like he owns the place.”
Record screeches to a halt. Uncomfortable silence….followed by some restrained chuckling. I was guilty. I couldn’t help it. I was simultaneously trying to keep milk from shooting out my nose and experiencing a deep self-hatred.
The timing and volume of the comment was such that I don’t know if the unfortunate victim ever heard it. It doesn’t matter. There is no excuse.
So, there you have it. I’ve got a seat reserved in the fiery depths of hell. In the front row. Right between Barry Bonds and the guy that gave me this haircut. I’ll understand if you think differently of me now.
posted by Pudge | 10:35 PM
2 Comments:
Dude! Don't worry my man. I hear the lord forgives you everytime someone makes fun of your pudgy fingers. Don't worry.
How goes it whatta? I see PZ has discovered the blog and forwarded it to everybody.
enjoy.
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